


Under the Influence

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, Anal Sex, Begging, Fever, Illnesses, M/M, Plot What Plot, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones gets the flu, but all he really wants to do is have sex with Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Influence

It’s McCoy’s forehead that wakes him.   
  
His roasting-hot, sticky forehead, pressed to the middle of Jim’s stomach.  
  
“Bones,” moans Jim, pushing at McCoy’s shoulders and trying to detach him from his lower body like he's a clingy mollusk. “Bones, you’re going nuclear. Computer, put a containment field around Leonard McCoy, he’s fucking spontaneously combusting or something.”  
  
“ _Unable to comply_.”  
  
“That’s because you’re a massive pile of crap and your mother was a toaster,” mutters Jim. The unbearable heat pressed to his stomach is  _still there_  and Jim comes out of the tangles of sleep enough to realize, hey, that doesn’t feel healthy.   
  
“Bones?”   
  
With a truly gargantuan effort, Jim manages to lever his eyelids open and the ceiling comes into blurry focus. He redirects his gaze downward, to the cloud of tousled brown hair resting on his torso, and clumsily pushes tired fingers through the dark, glossy strands, down to the curve of McCoy’s worried forehead. “Jesus,” he says, jerking his palm away from the inferno that meets his hand. It’s the kind of fever that feels like really bad sunburn, heat radiating mercilessly from his skin even when Jim isn’t directly touching him. McCoy snuffles fretfully, turns his face against Jim’s stomach, but otherwise stays unconscious.   
  
“Bones,” repeats Jim, squirming helplessly and patting his cheek. “Bones, wake up.”  
  
He’s greeted with a muttered stream of half-asleep, vaguely aggressive invective, and then McCoy groans, entire body stirring. He tilts his head up, chin balanced in the soft flesh of Jim’s belly, and angles a gaze at Jim that is enticingly worn and glazed over with fever and exhaustion. “What you wake me for,” he grunts, his voice scraped raw and needy, hitching over the more difficult syllables.   
  
“I’m trying to escape from the corona of your solar flare,” replies Jim, manhandling McCoy’s face and frowning thoughtfully. “You are, like, so feverish I’m amazed your skin hasn’t melted away.”  
  
“That explains why I feel like the ass-end of a sick dog,” mumbles McCoy, dropping his face back down against Jim’s stomach when the effort of holding his head up overwhelms him. Jim yelps, his stomach twitching, and carefully extricates himself from under McCoy’s limp, burning body. McCoy just lets Jim remove him, dribbling off Jim like a melting snowman, gently plopping onto the sheets and remaining in exactly the position in which he falls, arms splayed beside him, face-first in the mattress. He hasn’t moved an inch when Jim returns with the medkit, setting it down and removing the medical tricorder to scan McCoy.  
  
“Influenza,” he proclaims, frowning at the readings. McCoy’s fever is off the  _hook_.   
  
McCoy’s incoherent response is swallowed by the bed. He makes another snuffling noise, and then he coughs, his entire body jerking like he’s been electrocuted.   
  
Jim winces in sympathy. “I’m going to have to burn those sheets,” he informs him pointedly. “According to this, you’re approximately the temperature of the surface of Mercury. The side that faces the sun.”  
  
This time, McCoy makes no manner of response at all, so Jim sets the tricorder aside and settles on the edge of a bed, laying a hand in McCoy’s thick, mussed hair, manipulating the cowlicks into amusing spikes. “Bones. Are you suffocating yourself?”   
  
McCoy grunts, and flails weakly. Eventually, his elbow catches the edge of the mattress, and he uses it to lever himself onto his back in a spectacular auditory extravaganza of creaking joints. His skin is alarmingly pale against the white sheets, the expanse of wan skin broken only by the twin spots of colour blooming bright on his cheeks and flushed red lips worried by tongue and teeth. Sprawled the way he is, he looks kitten-weak and listless, his hair falling like a dark slash over his forehead.   
  
“I’m sore,” he says, finally, his throat working as he swallows and blinks slowly at Jim, eyelids revealing themselves as a shiny, ruddy pink. “Achy.”  
  
“Should I take you to Medical?” asks Jim, eyebrows coming together in a confusing little jumble of a frown.  
  
McCoy makes a hideous snorting nose and half-turns his body, pulling down the pillow from the headboard and hugging it bodily. “Don’t be stupid. They’d laugh me right out of sickbay. There’s a hypo in the kit. The blue cartridges are fever reducers and the green are pain relief. Load ‘em both. I’ll sleep it off.”  
  
Jim shrugs, obeying McCoy’s instructions because it would be asking for trouble not to. He presses the hypo gently to the skin of his throat and depresses the trigger. “Okay, Bones. I’ll get you some water.”  
  
When he comes back, McCoy is already asleep again, drooling into the pillow and frowning irritably. Jim stands for a moment beside the bed, smiling, then brushes the hair back from his hot forehead, kisses him there, and gets into bed, tucking his body protectively around McCoy’s.   
  


oOo

  
  
It’s McCoy’s lips that wake him.   
  
They’re not nearly as hot as his forehead, instead moving over his skin and pressing warm, chapped-dry kisses to the slope of Jim’s clavicle, the dip of his throat, his stubbly jaw, his eyelids and nose. Jim is sun-warm and heavy with sleep, lazily opposed to the idea of waking up, but when he blinks open his eyes at the insistent kisses, he’s treated to the sight of McCoy leaning over him, the sunlight that’s streaming in igniting his hair into a dark, irregular halo and dappling his bloodshot eyes pale green. “Hey,” he rasps, his fingers tight on Jim’s biceps.   
  
“You look like a plague victim,” replies Jim. He’s never actually seen a plague victim, but they can’t look any worse than McCoy does.  
  
“You sure know how to make a girl feel pretty,” growls McCoy, grumpily. His lips delve into the hollow of Jim’s collarbone, brushing soft and searching over his skin. Jim realizes, quite suddenly, that McCoy is hard, his erection pressing against Jim’s hip. A hot, teasing tongue flicks out, lapping at Jim’s throat, and Jim lifts his arms, cupping McCoy’s elbows and raising an eyebrow.   
  
“Bones, what the hell are you doing?”  
  
“Having sex with you,” breathes McCoy, ducking closer to lick at Jim’s pulse point with his scalding tongue, leaving behind wet stripes of saliva that wrestle shivers out of Jim’s body when McCoy breathes gently. He puts up a knee to literally cock-block McCoy.  
  
“Bones, wait, you said you were feeling—aren’t you sore? Achy? Heinously ill?”  
  
“No,” says McCoy, perfunctorily. In their bright square of light, he looks washed out and translucent, though there’s still a creeping flush to his cheeks and throat that Jim is certain can’t possibly be a sign of good health. However, it’s his eyes that show the fever most of all, bright and glassy and huge in his head, all moss green and mottled brown, intent and roving over Jim.   
  
“You’re still feverish,” protests Jim, squirreling out of McCoy’s grip and gently pushing him back, scooting up to sit against the headboard. McCoy immediately kneels over his thighs, shifting closer, fingers trailing over Jim’s hips and chest, searing him with each brief touch. Despite himself, Jim is actually starting to get hard; he knows McCoy is sick, needs rest, but all his lingering kisses and curious, exploratory touches are having their desired effect. “You need—Bones—you need to chill out and rest.”  
  
“I’m fine,” says McCoy, pressing another persuasive kiss to Jim’s throat, then down to his sternum, his fingers trailing after them, tracing the lingering patterns of McCoy’s lips.   
  
“Bones,” says Jim, capturing McCoy’s face in his hands and pulling him close. McCoy blinks at him owlishly, pink-cheeked and agitated, and ducks in for a quick, questioning kiss bursting with desperation and need. He pulls back and Jim can’t take his eyes off him. “Okay, okay, fine, but you can’t complain when you feel like shit, later,” he says, returning the kiss with interest. “What do you want?”  
  
“Fuck me,” McCoy replies immediately, and it’s said with a sigh of palpable relief, his jerky, urgent movements almost dizzying as he presses himself bodily to Jim, ruts up against him with a low, eager moan.   
  
“Okay,” says Jim, running his fingers through McCoy’s hair soothingly, stroking down his neck and shoulders, and caressing his dry, heated skin, sparking little shocks of electricity between their bodies. “Okay, Bones. But not like this, way too much exertion for you, old man.”  
  
McCoy scowls vaguely at him, but allows Jim to roll them over until McCoy is on his stomach, hips propped up by pillows. Jim leaves him for just a moment to get lube, then settles between McCoy’s widely spread legs, one hands resting on his lower back. He thumbs at the dip of his spine as he works two slick fingers into McCoy’s hole, tugging and stretching the way he knows will make McCoy sigh and curl his toes. He gets a gratifying little whimper, rotating his wrist for a better angle and sweeping the pads of his fingers against his prostate, waiting for McCoy’s grunt and the buck of his hips into the mattress.   
  
Jim is bent over McCoy, who is balanced stubbornly on his forearms, fingers digging into the covers and fisting them until his knuckles turn white when Jim adds the third finger. McCoy clenches tight around him and then relaxes with a sound that sends all the blood rushing to be first in line to fill Jim’s dick.   
  
“Fuck me,” gasps Bones, his back tensing as he tries to rise up onto his knees, but Jim’s arm holds him down, keeps him more or less stationary. “Fuckmefuckme _fuckme_ ,” he begs in a way from which he usually restrains himself, writhing like there’s fire painted under his skin, mouth open, those plush, perfect lips parted with a breath. He inhales deeply through his nose,  _mewls_  when Jim deliberately presses over his prostate, and continues to squirm.   
  
“Stay put,” orders Jim, splaying his free hand over the small of McCoy’s back. “You’re—you should be resting, Bones, this is crazy—”  
  
“ _Please_ ,” whispers McCoy. His voice is ragged with need, thick and pleading and unsteady.   
  
Jim's resolve collapses like a badly-balanced house of cards.   
  
There’s no universe in which he can ignore that pathetic little wobbly hitch in McCoy’s voice—how the fuck could he? he’d have to be some sort of horrible mindless automaton Jim to do it—so he just withdraws his fingers, then fumbles the lube and slicks himself up, hurried and graceless. Lifting the hand he’s using to restrain McCoy, he blankets him with his body instead, aligning his cock with the crease of his ass and rocking aimlessly against his hole without pushing inside. McCoy bucks his entire body and grinds his elbows into the bed, too weak and shaky to gain any sort of leverage.   
  
“Relax,” breathes Jim, his hands cradling McCoy’s hips, holding him, molding his body with his own.   
  
He sinks into McCoy with a roll of his hips, guiding his cock into the white-hot burn of McCoy’s achingly tight body. For a moment, Jim can’t actually breathe; he just bites his lip as his head swims and McCoy squirms and gasps beneath him, frantic and thrumming with nervous energy.   
  
“Jim,” groans McCoy, arching his back like a cat and nudging Jim in deeper, until his balls nudge the curve of his ass. “ _Please_ , let me—”  
  
The impatient bastard tries to get up onto his hands and knees again. By this point, Jim is fucking adamant that McCoy  _stay put_ , because he’s going to wear himself out and find a way to blame  _Jim_  when his fever ratchets up from tolerable to incredibly fucking uncomfortable, and Jim isn’t having any of that. Jim leans his weight forward, firmly pinning McCoy and beginning to rock in earnest, until McCoy is panting, finally giving in and just  _taking it_ , jerking back against Jim’s cock with short, congested little whimpers. Sweat beads at the crest of his back, slipping down to pool between them, their skin sliding together with the whispered hiss of slick, humming bodies.   
  
“I mean it,” says Jim, stifling a moan against McCoy’s shoulder and resisting the urge to bite down. “Stay.  _Put_. Relax. You’re going to lie here and take whatever I want to give you, Bones, and if you feel like shit after this, then it’ll be so far from my fault you won’t even be able to see me.”  
  
“That—” Bones cuts himself off with a hoarse little whine, grinding his hips down into the pillows, presumably to relieve a bit of the pressure on his cock. “That doesn’t even make  _sense_ ,” he pants, coiled tight beneath Jim, his fingers scrabbling. His skin is burning hot, but Jim can’t tell if it’s the sex or the fever that’s doing it.   
  
Jim pulls out, forearms crossed over McCoy’s shoulder blades, and then thrusts back in to stuff McCoy full, jerking him up the bed and bottoming out with each smooth stroke. He’s hoping to coax out another one of those delicious, tattered mewls; three more thrusts and it’s that high, fever-pitched note deep in his throat that has McCoy shuddering his climax with just the friction of the bed on his erection. He clenches impossibly tight around Jim, anchoring him and holding him close, until he abruptly releases all the tension from his body and tips forward into the pillows, going ragdoll limp.   
  
With gritted teeth, Jim grips his hips, tugs him back, and rocks gently into the slick heat of his body until he comes with groan that resonates through them both.   
  


oOo

  
  
It’s McCoy’s hands that wake him.  
  
“Bones,” groans Jim, keeping his eyes squeezed resolutely shut. If he doesn’t open his eyes, he’s not truly awake. It’s a bold-faced lie that never works, considering he just spoke out loud. “Bones, cut it out.”  
  
McCoy’s hands cease whatever it is they were attempting to do with the blankets. “Just tryin’ to get comfortable,” comes McCoy’s voice, rough and jagged.   
  
Jim sighs, and opens his eyes. “You’re in pain,” he says, flatly.   
  
“No,” says McCoy. It’s entirely unconvincing, considering the way he’s curled up against Jim, fidgeting restlessly and emitting pained little sighs and moans. “Pain killer just wore off early. Was achy before.”  
  
“Getting thoroughly, expertly reamed probably didn’t help,” says Jim smugly. “I fucking told you so.” He softens his stone-cold victory by filtering McCoy’s sweat-damp hair through his fingers, stroking gently.  
  
“Worth it, though,” mutters McCoy, closing cloudy, unfocused eyes and settling against Jim.  
  
“You’re a bad influence,” teases Jim, pulling McCoy into his arms and holding him.   
  
McCoy, predictably, is already asleep.


End file.
